


Munich

by SilentAuror



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Porn, Porn With Plot, Rimming, Romance, Skype Sex, post-series 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-23
Updated: 2016-12-23
Packaged: 2018-09-11 12:51:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8980513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilentAuror/pseuds/SilentAuror
Summary: Sherlock has to go to Munich for a case. John misses him. A lot.





	

**Munich**

 

“John.” 

John hears himself grunt and doesn’t move. 

“John.”

He makes an indistinct sound, muffled by the pillows, and attempts to ignore whatever it is. 

“John. Wake up.” 

He groans now, arms hugging the pillow tighter. “Hmmm?” He doesn’t move. 

“I’m leaving for Munich now.”

John’s brain comes back online at this. _Munich. Right._ He pushes himself over onto his side, blinking grit out of his eyes. Sherlock is standing there beside the bed. The light from the loo is on behind him. John remembers and gives a long sigh, reaching for Sherlock’s hand. “When are you coming back again?” His voice is scratchy. 

Sherlock’s fingers tighten around his. “Tuesday,” he says in patient reminder. “It’s Saturday morning now.” They’ve already been through this. 

John blinks some more and yawns, propping his head up with his free hand. “What time is it?” He’s mostly awake, though; years of first the army and then living with Sherlock have conditioned him to wake quickly. 

“Quarter to six,” Sherlock tells him. He waits, a bit expectantly, and then John gets it. 

“Hey. Is that your new suit?” he asks, his interest piquing. Sherlock did promise to show him before he left. 

Sherlock’s smile unfurls slowly, trying not to look too pleased that John got there. “It is,” he confirms. 

John lets go of his hand. “Back up and let me see it properly,” he orders. As Sherlock goes, John reaches for his glass of water on the night table and takes a sip, then switches on the lamp. He rubs his eyes, then focuses on Sherlock. “Jesus,” he says aloud, letting all of the disbelief and admiration and attraction come into his tone at once. “Are those skinny-leg trousers or something?” 

Sherlock moves a little, angling himself this way and that so that John can get a good look. “I had them tailored a little tighter,” he confirms. “What do you think?” 

“Your legs look ten miles long in them,” John says. He admires the slim cut of the jacket, and Sherlock’s lean, lithely-muscled stomach beneath it, enviably flat and hard. The suit is bespoke, naturally, a navy so dark it’s almost black, three-button this time, with a waistcoat beneath. It’s not his usual style – in fact, it’s his brother’s style, which is why Sherlock has always disdained it, but this time it’s for a particular reason. He looks like a city boy from the thirties. More to the point, he looks absolutely incredible. John gestures with his chin. “Turn around.” It’s not even remotely subtle and wasn’t meant to be. 

Sherlock smirks a little and does a wide circle, lifting the back of the jacket so that John can get a good, unobstructed view of his arse. “Like what you see?” 

John feels himself stirring at the sight and swallows. “Fuck, your arse looks fantastic. Half the continent is going to want to shag you on sight.” 

“That was part of the goal, at least with the first client,” Sherlock reminds him, walking back over to the bed. “So, you approve?” 

“You look incredible,” John says, tipping his head back to look up into Sherlock’s face, smiling. 

Sherlock’s eyebrows jut upward in undisguised provocation. “How incredible?” he wants to know. He nods obliquely toward the midsection of John’s body under the blankets and John obliges him and pulls them back so that Sherlock can observe the visceral effect of his new suit for himself. 

He lets Sherlock admire said effect for a moment, then puts a hand on Sherlock’s hip and bends forward to nuzzle at his crotch with his face. “Do you really have to leave right now?” 

“Very soon,” Sherlock says with both reluctance and some difficulty; his breath has caught and his voice comes out a little higher than usual. “I should get into a cab in about ten minutes.” 

Ten minutes. Damn. Ten minutes isn’t anywhere near long enough for any of what John’s lewd, morning-sex-geared brain is imagining at the moment. Still: ten minutes is ten minutes. “Mmm,” he says in response, rubbing his nose against the seam of Sherlock’s crotch. It smells more like new material than it does of Sherlock, but he can just catch a hint of the duskier, headier scent of Sherlock himself. Sherlock doesn’t stop him, breathing in deeply, his fingers curling around John’s shoulder. The bed is the perfect height for this. John rubs his nose and mouth over the hardening outline of Sherlock’s cock, careful not to get the material too damp. He’d be more pleased about how quickly Sherlock’s body is responding to him if he weren’t used to it by now. He used to tell himself, back in the days where he’d argue to himself that he wasn’t gay, wasn’t into blokes, no matter what his confused feelings for Sherlock were, that he could never appreciate a cock the way he did a woman’s body, but that hasn’t been the case at all. Sherlock’s body is almost as much of a drug for him as the rest of Sherlock is, and John absolutely worships his cock. He makes a sound of approval and reaches for the zip of Sherlock’s trousers, not even bothering with what appears to be a somewhat complicated button system. 

Sherlock makes a breathy sound of agreement and shuffles as close to the bed as he can get. 

John slips his hand inside and draws out Sherlock’s cock, hard and thick. It’s like a Michelangelo carving of a cock, it’s so perfect. Its only quirk is the way it points up and very slightly to the left, and John loves that, too, that it has a quirk at all. He pulls it to his mouth, then puts his hand on Sherlock’s right arse cheek and squeezes through the tightly-hugging material of his trousers. 

Sherlock moans loudly, his cock twitching in John’s mouth. “Oh – John, you don’t have to – ahh – !” 

John makes a “Yes, I do” sound around his mouthful of cock and Sherlock moans again from the vibrations. John sucks and bobs his head over the length of Sherlock, lips covering his teeth, soft palate as high as he can get it. They’ve got very good at this, after six months of more or less nonstop sex, and John’s always prided himself on his oral skills as it is. It’s a little awkward at this angle: his head is tilted a little to the right because he’s still lying on his side, but if he sat up his head would be too high. Besides, Sherlock is hardly objecting. John is giving it his best, not playing about and drawing it out, but going straight for the end goal. Sherlock is moaning rhythmically, his voice hoarse, cock steadily leaking fluid. John loves this, too, loves the musky taste of it in a way he’d never imagined he would. This is something that belongs to him and him alone. No one else in the world knows the intimate taste of Sherlock’s stages of arousal from beginning to end, knowing exactly when he’ll come just from what’s on his tongue alone. Sherlock is beginning to pant and make desperate sounds, so John pulls off for a second. “Put your hands on my head,” he orders. “Fuck my mouth.” 

Normally Sherlock would ask if he’s sure, but he must really want it badly by now, because this time he just agrees, both of his long-fingered hands clamping around John’s skull. John braces himself and opens his throat, taking a deep breath through his nose, and Sherlock begins to do exactly as he was told, thrusting frantically into John’s mouth at jackhammer speed, his voice rising until it’s all breath, catching and suspending and then he slams into John’s throat and holds himself there, fingers clenched in John's hair, erupting in streams directly down his throat. He keeps at it, pushing in as far as he can go and pulsing out more and more until the wave is spent. 

John is already jerking off, fist flying over himself, Sherlock’s cock softening in his mouth as his fingers turn gentle in John’s hair, and the feeling of them there is only adding to his arousal at the moment. 

Sherlock opens his eyes, exhales deeply, and pulls himself from John’s lips. He bends and puts his mouth on John’s, panting into it, his hand tracking John’s arm to down between his legs and pushing his hand out of the way. “Let me,” he says, against John’s mouth. 

John only puts up a token protest. “Your suit – and you’ll be late – ”

Sherlock doesn’t bother responding to this, shoving the blankets all the way out of the way and crawling onto John as he shifts onto his back, one hundred and eighty-three centimetres of exquisitely-suited detective between his thighs, hot breath on John’s cock for a second and then it’s the blissful wet warmth of his mouth and John groans. Sherlock makes a sound that reflects it, a hungry sound, his mouth and hand working over John’s flesh. 

John unabashedly wraps both legs around Sherlock’s back and pumps his hips upward, and Sherlock encourages it, going faster. They’ve never done this with one of them fully dressed and the other fully nude before and it makes for an interesting contrast. In fact, it makes John feel even more naked than usual, and he likes it. Sherlock is deep-throating him now, both hands slid under John to squeeze his arse relentlessly. They both like things a little rough a lot of the time, though there are certainly plenty of exceptions, nights when it’s slow, drawn out, every action almost suspended, the intimacy heightened so intensely that sometimes John’s stopped being able to tell where one of them starts and the other stops, they’re so close. But now it’s all about need and urgency; there’s no time for tenderness and that’s just fine. John hears himself moaning wantonly, no filters, none needed. He’s about to come and gives his standard warning sound, but Sherlock already knows. His fist is a blur on John’s shaft, lips tight around the head, tongue massaging it almost roughly, and that does it – John’s body snaps upward and he does the same thing, thrusting hard into Sherlock’s throat, one hand pushing Sherlock’s head down to hold him in place through his breathless, stars-in-his-vision orgasm, white noise howling through his head as he pours himself in liquid heat down Sherlock’s long throat. 

When it’s passed, he opens his eyes and finds Sherlock in front of him, face-to-face, waiting for him. He leans over and kisses John for a long, very good moment, his right hand still cupped around John’s cock and balls and protecting his suit from any afterthought spatterings. Besides, he knows that John loves having his bits held like this right after. There’s very little they don’t know about each other’s bodies and what they like at this point. John kisses back, pulling Sherlock closer. His heart is still racing, breath quick, but lying together and kissing after sex in any form is one of their things and he wouldn’t miss out on it for the world. After a little, the kiss ebbs off and he opens his eyes again. “You should go,” he says with great reluctance. 

Sherlock doesn’t look around at any of the clocks in the room. “I should,” he agrees, with just as much reluctance. “I wish you could come with me.” 

John waves this off. “It’s fine. Next time, right?” 

“Next time,” Sherlock agrees. “Meanwhile, I’ll have my tablet, so we can skype…” 

John smiles. “We will,” he vows. “I can’t go four days without talking to you.” 

“Or without sex,” Sherlock points out. “It worked pretty well when I was in Glasgow two months ago.”

“‘Pretty well’ is an understatement,” John tells him, still smiling. “It was hot and I’m looking forward to a repeat in some form. Though the real thing is always better, of course.” He fingers the lapel of Sherlock’s suit. “You’re incredibly hot in this. What time is your return flight?” 

“Six in the afternoon,” Sherlock says. “I’ll be home in time for dinner if nothing is cancelled or delayed.” 

“Good. Wear the suit on your way home,” John says. 

Sherlock leans in and kisses him again. “I will,” he says after, then kisses him one more time. He gets off the bed and straightens the suit, zipping himself away. “Am I presentable?” 

“You look perfect,” John tells him, and means it. He hates seeing Sherlock go, even for only four days. “I love you,” he says impulsively. They don’t say it that often, but they always mean it a lot when they do. 

Sherlock stops and puts the bag he was just shouldering back down again, turns around and comes back to the bed. He climbs onto John, his arms a cage around John’s head, and lies down flat on top of him, not caring about any possible mess this time, and kisses him as deeply and sensually as he can, their tongues rubbing together, lips devouring each other’s as though they’re trying to crawl into each other’s bodies through their mouths. John holds him as tightly as he can, Sherlock’s arms dug under his back, their legs tangled together, John’s skin against Sherlock’s wool-clad legs. Finally Sherlock lifts off and says, “I love you, too.” There’s one more kiss, just a long, firm press of his lips to John’s, and then he’s off again. “See you in four days.” 

“Sooner on skype,” John reminds him, his entire being missing Sherlock fiercely already. 

Sherlock smiles at him from the doorway. “Sooner on skype,” he promises, and then he’s gone. 

John listens until the downstairs door closes, then sighs and turns onto his side again, pulling the blankets up to his ears. Eventually he falls asleep again. 

*** 

Five days ago when Sherlock looked up from his laptop and said abruptly, “I need to go to Germany,” John hadn’t said much. His response was something along the lines of “Hmm?” 

He’d been on the sofa, partly reading his novel and partly fighting off a nap, and he wasn’t really paying attention to Sherlock. The words took a moment to sink in. “Why?” he’d asked then, realising that Sherlock was waiting for a proper reaction. 

“Mikael Morgenthaler,” Sherlock said sourly, and John groaned. 

“Not that jerk. Why do you need to go there?” He closed his novel and looked over, paying full attention now. 

Sherlock sighed deeply. “Because he’ll be in Munich for meetings. David Obermatt just emailed me to say so.” 

“Why Munich rather than Zurich?” John wanted to know. 

“Because Obermatt is giving the keynote address at a conference on the stock market or some such thing, and he’s meeting with Morgenthaler himself during said conference,” Sherlock said. “Morgenthaler won’t meet with me on his own turf unless I go to his house, and you and I would both prefer we avoid that. If I can catch him on neutral ground, however, perhaps I can… intimate my interest in having a drink, and get him to talk that way.” 

John got it. “In the lounge of his hotel, say,” he’d said, and Sherlock had nodded his agreement. John made a face. “I don’t like it, but it’s your call.” 

“I don’t like it much, myself,” Sherlock admitted. Morgenthaler is a creep, not to put too fine a point on it, and he’s made it quite clear that the only circumstances under which he might be willing to talk about his shady dealings with an arms dealer named David Jacobs would involve Sherlock naked and bent over one expensive piece of furniture or another. Sherlock has, naturally, declined all such invitations, but the very mention of Morgenthaler makes John bristle. 

“Can I at least go with you?” he’d asked, and Sherlock had hesitated. 

“I’d say yes, but I think it would be better if you weren’t about,” he said. “You know he doesn’t particularly like you.” 

No. That much was certainly true. John had had some choice words for the man for propositioning Sherlock right in front of him, yet again, and had forcibly yanked Sherlock out of touching range. Sherlock had smoothed things with Morgenthaler over later, but meanwhile had muscled John up the stairs and into the flat the instant they’d got out of the taxi, his thighs propelling John upward, he was so close. He’d slammed the door behind them and torn half of John’s clothes off in three seconds before interrupting to help John’s hungry hands strip his own things off. “I love it when you get all possessive like that,” he’d said, his voice low and rough with unshielded lust, his hands all over John like piranhas. They’d ended up having sex right there on the carpet, John on his hands and knees, thanking whatever deity had seen fit to inspire Sherlock to keep lube in his coat pocket because waiting the extra thirty seconds to stagger down the corridor to the bedroom was out of the question by that point. Sherlock was pounding into him from behind, his arms like pillars around John’s, his taller frame looming over him, his breath in John’s hair, and it was raw and animalistic and absolutely phenomenal. In general, John tops, but the exceptions are fantastic, too. And after, it was the opposite. Sherlock’s hard angles all turned soft, bringing over heaps of blankets and draping them over both of them in front of the fire, neither of them bothering to get dressed again. They’d ordered dinner (Sherlock answered the door in nothing but a blanket) and eaten there on the floor, talking and unwinding, before stretching out to start touching again, slowly this time. 

Life has become rather incredible since all this started six months ago. Now, awake and puttering around the kitchen, John listens to the silence in the flat and realises he’s already wondering how long it will be until they can chat tonight. He craves Sherlock even more than he ever did. Harry calls it co-dependency, but she’s wrong. They’re just making up for lost time. It will settle down eventually, John imagines, but he’s in no rush for it to become any less intense. 

After Mary’s death, he’d moved back in, of course, and spent three weeks just feeling blank and trying to get his head on the right way around again, trying to make sense of it all. Her past had caught up to her, all right, only the problem was that it wasn’t even her past. Yet another lie, there. Nearly everything that came out of her face was a lie, as it turned out. It wasn’t even his child. It took him three weeks to make as much sense of it as he could, and then, abruptly, it was over. John woke up one morning and knew that he was finished with that, which left him free to start thinking about the rest of his life, and the principal person in it: Sherlock. 

He’d always known, somewhere under the layers of denial. He’d known why said denials always came out a little too loud, a little too defiant. He’d known from the start, really. And so, three days later, he’d walked up the stairs from a long walk to find Sherlock sprawled out on the sofa, doing nothing in particular. He’d stopped in middle of the sitting room and taken a deep breath, but before he could even speak, Sherlock had turned his head and fixed those brilliantly blue eyes on his. And somehow, John could see that he already knew what he was going to say. He had to say it anyway, though. “Sherlock – I don’t even know where to start,” he’d said, awkward, his hands opening and closing reflexively. 

Sherlock had sat up, every cell of his body seeming to be focused on him. “Is this about – Mary?” he’d asked, the hesitation so slight one could almost miss it. 

“No.” John shook his head. “It’s about us.” 

Sherlock had tilted his head a little, as though he hadn’t heard him properly. “‘Us’?” he repeated, the word almost a challenge. 

John took a deep breath, then said, quickly so that he wouldn’t change his mind and back out, “Look – there’s just so much I haven’t said, from the very beginning. So much I think that maybe you haven’t said, either. Maybe I’m wrong about that, but now that Mary’s gone and it’s finally just you and me again, I want to say it at last: I’ve wanted something more between us since the day we met. I don’t know how I ever let it get so far off track, but life just sort of happened, and I kept denying it, and you kept – doing what you do, with the whole not doing relationships thing and all that, but – this is me finally just saying it: I want there to be more between us. Starting now, if you’re – interested.” 

He’d stopped, then, waiting for Sherlock to react. He’d said enough to make himself clear, surely. He had: Sherlock stood up then, his eyes locked on John’s. “You want – something more,” he’d repeated. 

“Yes.” John waited. 

Sherlock advanced slowly, like a panther stalking its prey in the long grass. “More than friendship.” 

“Yes.” 

Those eyes hadn’t gone anywhere, fixed on John’s as the space between the two of them grew shorter all the time. “Physical in nature.” 

“If you’d be – amenable,” John had said, feeling rooted to the carpet despite the open air at his back, but holding his ground, meeting Sherlock’s intense eyes steadily. 

The space between them had shrunk to a foot. “And you’ve wanted this since the day we met,” Sherlock repeated, as though confirming, and John had nodded. 

“Yes, I h – ” It was as far as he got, because then Sherlock’s mouth was on his, unhesitating and very sure, and John hadn’t resisted in the least, opening his mouth and heart to it in one, clutching Sherlock to himself hungrily, his fingers tangled in Sherlock’s unkempt curls. 

They’d kissed and kissed, barely coming up for air for the better part of twenty minutes before Sherlock finally broke away and said, his voice husky and low in his throat, “Yes. I’d be amenable. To all of it.” 

“Have you – ?” John started, and Sherlock had made a sound of agreement, moving in to taste John’s throat, lipping his way along John’s jawline. 

“Been wanting it?” Sherlock murmured into his ear. “Yes. For a very long time now. I can’t say when I knew definitively, but – yes. Always. It always had to be you, John.” 

“Sherlock – ” He’d had to kiss Sherlock again after that. Several minutes later, John finally managed to pull himself together a little and said, “This changes everything. From now on, we always just tell each other the truth. No more lies. Or – omissions of truth. If we want something, we’ll just say it. Deal?”

“I want you,” Sherlock said immediately. He’d moved his hands to John’s head, fingers combing through his hair and stroking his scalp. “I want you in every possible way there is to want another person. I want you in ways I didn’t know I was capable of wanting. I’ll take anything you want to give me, starting right here and now.”

John can’t remember to this day what he said to _that_ , but he’s fairly certain that it was non-verbal and that he’d lost track of the time rather thoroughly after that. They’d started off in the sitting room there, then moved to the sofa, and from there to the bedroom – Sherlock’s bedroom, as it still was back then. It stopped being Sherlock’s bedroom within the following twenty-four hours and simply became known as _the_ bedroom, to John’s enduring satisfaction. 

And they’ve kept their word. They bicker, but they never fight. If Sherlock gets annoyed with him about something, he says what it is directly, and John does his best to do the same, even if it comes out grumpily or with a side of profanity. There haven’t been any misunderstandings or hurt feelings or sulky silences, though. Most of the time they can barely keep their hands off each other, and honestly, it’s bliss. John’s never been with anyone who touches him so much, or makes him feel so much with said touches. Somehow Sherlock manages to touch him in ways that feel far more proprietary than anyone else John’s been with, yet beneath it there’s still a sense of awe that this is allowed now, and it’s an awe that John shares. They have an intimacy so intense that John feels a proprietary ownership of Sherlock’s body that he’s never felt with anyone else, and that Sherlock owns him every bit as much. They’ve become one joint being in a way that doesn’t stop when they’re not actively having sex, and John revels in this. 

And while Sherlock is rather private about all of this in the presence of anyone else, the connection is strong enough that all he needs to do is catch John’s eye in a crowded room, and either send him a quirk of an eyebrow that lets him know what he’s thinking in terms of later, as soon as they’re on their own again. Or even better, there will be a look on his face of quiet yearning, almost like pain, that makes John’s knees weak to see. It’s a look that says exactly how much Sherlock loves him, wants him, misses the fact that they’re not actively together right at that moment. At which point John will excuse himself from whatever conversation he’s in and shoulder his way through the crowd, surreptitiously slip his hand into Sherlock’s and tug him into some private corner because his need to kiss Sherlock is every bit as strong as the need in Sherlock’s eyes. Other times, Sherlock will find him, not necessarily joining John’s conversation, but standing near enough to him to touch, even leaning his back into John’s subtly as he carries on his own small talk, or letting their upper arms touch. He gets jealous, too, which makes John feel better about his own level of possessiveness. Once John found himself cornered by a fan of theirs after a press conference inside the Met’s headquarters. The bloke was young and very fit, quite attractive in fact, and it would have been rude to refuse to talk to him. As though hardwired to notice these things, Sherlock had materialised at his right side less than two minutes into the conversation, plastering himself to John’s side, an arm slipped possessively around John’s waist. When introduced – and John had dryly emphasised the fact that the man was an admirer of their work to help settle Sherlock’s obviously-bristling hackles, Sherlock had relaxed a little and extended his right hand to shake, while simultaneously dropping his left to John’s arse cheek, right there in public, though they were all standing in a corner. John actually loves it when things like this happen. It fuels them both, makes them want each other even more. He’d nearly fucked Sherlock in the taxi on the way home that time, though they’d made it back with all of their clothes still on, at least. 

Alone, John wanders around the flat feeling a bit lost. He cleans a little, visits Mrs Hudson and changes her kitchen light for her, then goes for a walk. He picks up something to eat for dinner, feeling unduly petulant about having to eat it alone. He wonders if Munich is nice and where Sherlock is eating. Surely he won’t actually let Morgenthaler take him out. He wouldn’t draw it out that long, would he? He’ll be walking a fine line between flirting and actively leading the man on. Morgenthaler has to be close to seventy, but he’s in good shape and most certainly carries a gun. He’s got a nasty temper, too, so if Sherlock reads him wrong, it could go south pretty quickly. He’s a pretty good flirt, though, and he’ll be paying attention to every nuance. John’s seen him flirt for plenty of cases now, with both men and women. He’s actually even better with men – though now, John isn’t surprised by this. Just the way Sherlock gets with him sometimes makes him wonder how he’s really never done any of this for real before them, flirted, talked dirty in bed, came out with innuendo filthy enough to make John both red in the face and half hard in public. He believes that Sherlock hasn’t, though, because everything they did was a first for Sherlock. Obviously so, though Sherlock is a quick study in this, too. The third blow job he ever gave John was the very best of John’s life to that point and it’s only got better since then. Some of it was new for John, too. He’d never given a blow job (though he’d received one or two from blokes before), rimmed anyone or been rimmed (and the very thought of Sherlock doing that to him is a dangerous thought to have in public, nearly always causing John to have to shift and cross his legs and actively direct his thoughts into non-arousing territory), and he’d never been fucked before. 

He’s thinking of this, of their first time with Sherlock inside him, as he walks back to the flat. By that point, they’d tried it the other way a good half dozen times already, and John was the one to ask if Sherlock wanted to give topping a try. Sherlock was a bit hesitant, but John had talked him through it, at least until Sherlock found his prostate and rendered speech impossible. After that, there’d been a considerable lot of shouting on both sides, but not many defined words, as such. 

Mrs Hudson knows, of course. They do try to keep it down and she’s never admitted directly that she can hear them sometimes, but she must. She came up one day, three days after John finally broached the subject, and found them in the sitting room, fully dressed, John lying half beside, half on top of Sherlock on the sofa, their fingers linked together beside Sherlock’s head. She’d exclaimed and inquired and said all the right things when they told her, and she hasn’t stopped beaming since. John glances at her closed flat door and briefly thinks of stopping by again, just for the company, but then he remembers that she was going to a supper with her bridge club and goes on upstairs by himself. 

He’d like to text Sherlock, but maybe he’s in the middle of the whole drinks thing with Morgenthaler. He’s just finished setting out his lonely meal when his phone buzzes, though, and his heart lifts. He knows it’s Sherlock before he even picks up his phone. It’s a photo, clearly taken in a restaurant, featuring a plate of food. John recognises some sort of grilled potatoes and what looks to be a piece of breaded meat, with a small salad in a bowl to the side of the plate, and a small glass of beer. Then an ellipsis appears, of Sherlock typing. The message appears a second later: 

_I hate eating without you._

John rapidly takes a picture of his own dinner: a box of pre-made sushi with a plastic container of sunomono salad beside it. He sends the picture with the caption _Me too. I miss you already._

Sherlock types back a moment later. _Me too. I should be free in a few hours. Probably late, though._

Grrr. John types back, trying to keep his tone light. _Did you manage to get Morgenthaler to agree to the drinks thing, then?_

 _Yes, and I can feel you bristling from here,_ Sherlock types back. _Relax. Nothing is going to happen._

 _Well, be careful. Don’t provoke him if you can help it,_ John cautions. He picks up his chopsticks and breaks them apart, waiting for Sherlock’s response. 

_I’ll do my best. I’ll text you later, when I’m free._

John types back _Ok_ and starts eating his sushi. It’s a poor substitute for having Sherlock himself, but it was nice to hear from him. After he’s finished, he watches the telly for awhile, then takes a long bath, trying not to think of how much time has passed. He gets into bed and starts to read, having already placed one of their many laptops on the night table on Sherlock’s side of the bed. 

To his relief, Sherlock finally texts. _Well, that was tedious. Are you online? Can I call now?_

John punches in his response with probably far too much enthusiasm, but there’s no one there to criticise him for it. _Yes! Give me fifteen seconds to wake the laptop up and then call!_ He puts the phone down on his night table and reaches for the laptop, balancing it on his knees for starters. He waits. 

The call comes a few seconds later, Sherlock’s face appearing in perfect clarity. He’s squinting at something, then looks into the camera and smiles. “Hi.” 

John feels the stupid smile plaster spread in tendrils all over his face. “Hey, you,” he says, and it’s ridiculous that he’s this happy to see someone who just left that morning, but it’s how he feels and he can’t help it. “So? How was it?” 

Sherlock heaves a sigh and rearranges himself onto his side, his head propped up on his elbow. John sees that he’s taken the jacket and waistcoat off, wearing only the divinely-tailored trousers and light grey shirt he had on underneath. “Tedious, as I predicted. But I did get him to talk a bit.”

John wrinkles his nose. “What did you have to do for that, hmm?” 

Sherlock shrugs elaborately. “Oh, you know: let him breathe down my collar and make lewd suggestions – none of which I took, obviously. I flirted a little. Nothing untoward. He likes that cologne you got me, for the record. I thought you might find that amusing. How was your day?” 

“Oh, fine,” John says dismissively. “Nothing exciting. I miss you.” 

“I miss you, too,” Sherlock says, sounding as though he means it. “Munich is pretty. We’ll have to come back here together sometime. Unfortunately, I do still have to go to Edinburgh.” 

John sighs, but he knew this was inevitable. “I suppose you have to see the old bag,” he agrees. Meredith Graham is, unbelievably, the aunt of their suspected arms dealer, and in a completely bizarre twist of fate, a huge admirer of Sherlock’s. She’s been sending cards for months now, and only recently did Sherlock deduce her connection to Daniel Jacobs, who lives in Stockholm but is one hundred percent English by birth. Sherlock pieced together the information from Meredith’s rambling letters tucked into her cards, and took to visiting her every two months or so in hopes of drawing her into his confidence. John went along once, and found her a bit frosty; Sherlock later explained that – unfeasible as it most certainly would be, Meredith seems to harbour a deep affection for him, one that Sherlock grimaces to imagine may be romantic in nature. The woman is seventy-two years old, but John agreed that it could easily be a crush. Sherlock is a beautiful man in his unique way, and when he turns on the charm (fake or otherwise, though John prides himself on being one of the only people who’s seen the real deal), people of any age or gender typically swoon. 

“Perhaps this will be the last visit,” Sherlock offers. “Either way, I’m leaving tomorrow afternoon, spending the night, then seeing Meredith for tea on Monday.” 

“Well, I hope she gives you something useful this time,” John says, a bit crossly. 

Sherlock merely smiles at this. “We’ll see,” he says, and changes the subject. “You’re in the bedroom, I see…” 

He hasn’t even moved, yet somehow his pose has become rather inviting. John licks his lips without meaning to. “I’m sitting on the bed,” he confirms. 

Sherlock’s eyebrows jut upward. “What are you wearing?”

“Nothing exciting,” John tells him. “Just this t-shirt and my boxers…”

As he predicted, a spark appears in Sherlock’s eyes. He particularly loves it when John is only half-dressed this way, which John knew perfectly well. “Let me see,” Sherlock orders. 

John rearranges his legs into a vee and sets the laptop down between his knees, tilting the screen so that Sherlock can see most of him except from the knees down. “How’s that?” 

He knows his crotch will be first and foremost in the screen, his face the furthest. Sherlock nonetheless bends closer. “Very nice,” he says approvingly. “Have you been thinking about this?” 

“All day,” John says honestly. “Without work, there’s been little else to think about.” 

Sherlock gives a nod southward. “Put your hand on it,” he requests. “I want to see when you start getting aroused.” 

John smiles and does as requested. “Sounds like I’m not the only one who’s had this on his mind,” he teases, and Sherlock doesn’t deny it. 

“Every time Morgenthaler said something crude, I had to actively keep myself from thinking of you saying it instead. It wasn’t difficult, considering that he’s rather different from you.” Sherlock is absently touching his chest, his eyes riveted to the screen and John’s hand where it’s lazily rubbing himself. 

“Good,” John says, meaning Morgenthaler, but he’s watching Sherlock’s fingers. “Unbutton your shirt, would you?” 

Sherlock smiles archly and slips each button out of its hole, starting at the top and working his way down. His skin is bare beneath it and John wants to bend forward and put his tongue to it through the screen. “Tell me what you’re going to do when I get home,” Sherlock suggests. “I’ll come up the stairs, wearing the new suit as you said. Then what?” 

John smiles back at him. “I’ll need to touch you in it,” he says matter-of-factly. “You look so good in it – I’ll want to feel how you feel with it on, so there will be a good bit of that. I’ll kiss you, of course, and tell you that I’ve missed you madly, which is already true.”

“What do you miss?” Sherlock interrupts, wanting to know. 

“All of it,” John says frankly. “I miss everything about you. Your presence in general, your sense of humour. Right now at this very moment, I miss that mouth of yours, and your incredible hands.” 

“You say that as if you didn’t just have this mouth on you this very morning,” Sherlock says, as though trying to sound severe but failing. His shirt is open all the way and he’s unbuttoning his cuffs now. 

“This morning was a long time ago,” John points out. 

“True. It was. Go on.” Sherlock tosses the shirt behind him onto the floor and returns to his pose, stretched out his side, leonine and sexy as hell and aware of the fact. 

John takes a deep breath. He’s stiffening already, his cock pushing against the thin cotton of his shorts. “I think that by the time you’re back, I’m going to feel the need to remind you of certain things that you’ve missed. Like what my tongue feels like up your arse.” 

Sherlock’s breath draws in sharply. “Where will we be at this point?” he asks. 

John shrugs. “I don’t know. We might not make it as far as the bedroom.” 

“In the sitting room, then?” Sherlock asks. “Right out in the open?” 

He sounds turned on by this idea, and sure enough, there’s a flush staining his cheekbones and it’s rather lovely. John loves nothing more than when Sherlock gets aroused, loves seeing it develop, figuring out new buttons to push to make it happen. “Yeah,” he says. “With the flat door open.” 

Sherlock actually moans at this, just a slip of it coming out with his exhalation. “John…” 

John bends forward. “Get those trousers off,” he orders. “I want to see how you’re doing down there…”

Sherlock shifts his tablet to show John that he’s got a hand between his legs already, just cupping himself through the tight material of his trousers. “Okay,” he says, and rolls off the bed to divest himself of them. “Underwear, too?” 

“Yes!” 

“Take yours off, too, then,” Sherlock returns. “And your t-shirt.” 

“Will do.” John moves the laptop to kick off his underwear and gets the t-shirt off over his head, then puts the computer back, his legs still spread wide. 

Sherlock is just settling himself on his side again, one hand curled around himself and stroking loosely. He takes in the sight of John, fully hard and very naked and swallows visibly. “God, I wish you were actually here. Or that I was there…”

“I know,” John says. “Still. It’s hot seeing you like this.” 

“Likewise,” Sherlock says. He nods at John’s crotch again. “Go on, touch yourself for me. And go on saying what else you’ll do when I get home.” 

“What else _we’ll_ do,” John corrects, and Sherlock lets go of himself for a moment to wave this off. “Well, I’ll have you on your hands and knees while I rim you, but I’ll wait until you’re actually begging for me to fuck you before I do. Even though you’re already pretty open from my mouth, I’ll get you onto your side – just like you are now – and I’ll suck you off while I open you with my fingers. You’ll be so close to coming that we’ll think about just letting you finish like that, but I know you. You’ll insist on coming with me inside you, so I’ll turn you onto your front – ”

“Back,” Sherlock interrupts, panting. “I want to be on my back for this.” 

“Back, then,” John concedes. He’s fisting himself roughly, speaking with an effort. “I’ll move your legs back and push into you slowly. You’ll want me to go faster at this point, but I’ll be so turned on from rimming you and then blowing you that I’ll need to go slow so that I don’t lose it right then and there.” 

Sherlock moans again, his fist blurring with the slight distortion of the skype video. “Keep going!” 

John feels himself leak a good bit just at hearing the desperation in Sherlock’s voice. It’s the biggest turn-on there is, and he groans. “So – I’ll push all the way inside you and then after a moment, I’ll start thrusting. I’ll get your prostate on about the third stroke and you’ll – ”

Sherlock interrupts him by coming, the hand not on his cock thrusting out to push the tablet out of range, the picture shaking, drops nonetheless flying past the screen as his body erupts. He’s moaning and John hears another liquid burst. His view is mostly of Sherlock’s head and shoulders because of the tablet shift, but it doesn’t matter. He moans himself, as though Sherlock’s orgasm is wired directly into his own body, and he shoves the laptop aside with his right foot as he starts to come, too. He can see it in his mind’s eye, fucking Sherlock right there on the faded carpet of the sitting room, the door wide open, both of them naked as the day they were born, bodies slapping together as John plunges into Sherlock. His knuckles are wet with his release and it’s on his thighs and belly, too. The stars begin to clear from his vision, and he can still hear Sherlock panting over the speaker. 

“I can’t see you,” Sherlock says now, adjusting the tablet again. 

John shifts himself down on the bed and pulls the laptop up into the space where Sherlock normally lies, facing it on his side the way Sherlock is. “I didn’t want to hit the keyboard,” he says ruefully. “Better?” 

“Much,” Sherlock says. “I want to see your penis. Are you still leaking?” 

John directs the laptop until he can see his junk in the little screen. “A bit,” he confirms. Sherlock knows exactly what his body does, after all. “That was really good. Quicker than I thought we’d be, but still really good.” 

He shifts the laptop back and Sherlock shrugs and smiles. “I guess we really do miss each other,” he says philosophically. “It will go slower when I get home.” 

“Maybe not the first round, but certainly the second and third,” John agrees, smirking. 

Sherlock smiles back. “What about round four?” he chides. 

John yawns. “My apologies. Round five, too, if you’re up for it.” 

“I’m always up for you,” Sherlock says spontaneously, and John smiles. 

“Come home soon,” he requests. 

“Tuesday,” Sherlock promises. He yawns, too. “Are you falling asleep?” 

“I think so.”

“You’re not even under the covers,” Sherlock scolds. “Get yourself comfortable and then we can say goodnight.” 

John smiles again, more to himself this time, and does what he’s told, putting the laptop on the night table as he pulls the blankets out from under him and up over his shoulders. He repositions the laptop. “Satisfied?” 

Sherlock surveys him. “Yes. I’m going to do the same thing. Wish me luck in Scotland.” 

“Good luck,” John says, and means it. “Be safe.” 

Sherlock snorts. “She’s seventy-two. I should be fine.”

“You know what I mean,” John says, though he knows that Sherlock does. 

“I do. I will.” Sherlock finds the camera and smiles directly into it, so that it feels like eye contact. “If it works, perhaps we can do this again tomorrow. Good night, John.” 

“Good night,” John says, and Sherlock disconnects. John puts the laptop back onto the night table and closes it, then immediately draws his legs up and lets himself drift off. 

*** 

Sherlock texts him once or twice the next day, once to complain about the smelly passenger on the plane next to him ( _Seriously, John, is it possible that he doesn’t know?!_ ) and later to say that he landed. John goes to the shops and buys groceries, trudges back to Baker Street with them, and puts everything away. After that, he sits down to tackle an article he’s been meaning to write on Post Traumatic Shock Syndrome for a medical journal that pays rather nicely, and buries himself in that for awhile. When he gets up to switch on a lamp later, he notices that the afternoon has slid right by. Evening is seeping into the flat and he hasn’t heard from Sherlock in a goodly while. He doesn’t want to pester him while he’s on a case, of course, but John decides that perhaps he’ll check in. He picks up his phone and sends a quick text: _Have you managed to contact Meredith about tea tomorrow?_

There is no response. John waits a little, sits down to put the finishing touches on the article, then goes into the kitchen to see what can be rustled up for supper. He ends up making a soup with parsnip and potato with a bit of milk to make it creamy near the end. He eats this with a couple of thick slices of French bread, generously buttered, and a pot of Darjeeling. After he’s tidied up, John goes back to the sitting room and switches on the telly to watch the news, though it’s just as much to break up the silence in the flat. After the news, an old movie that he’s seen before comes on, and he watches it anyway, trying not to check his phone. It’s not like Sherlock – not anymore, at least – to ignore his texts and he can’t help but feel a bit anxious. 

The film ends and John stands up and stretches, getting the kinks out of his back. He’s got something rather filthy in mind for Sherlock and their (very loose) skype date for tonight, but now he’s concerned. He decides to send another text. _You okay?_ It’s after eleven, so John takes himself to the loo and gets ready for bed. He strips down to his underwear and gets under the blankets, holding his phone and waiting. 

He jerks awake sometime later when it buzzes, startling him. It’s Sherlock, finally. John feels a huge swoop of relief and unlocks the screen to read the text. It says only: _Couldn’t answer before, was on a plane. And I’m afraid it’s not going to work tonight. Sorry. Really._

John feels his heart drop into his stomach in a mix of disappointment, worry, and a tiny bit of anger that he feels ashamed of feeling. Sherlock’s words are a little curt, except for the apology at the end. After having ignored him all day and then standing him up for their skype-sex date, John does feel a bit justified in feeling tetchy now. He sighs and writes back. _I thought you weren’t seeing Meredith until tomorrow? Where are you now?_

He waits for a response, but it doesn’t come. Finally, disappointed and slightly petulant, John falls asleep. 

*** 

When he wakes, there’s a message, though, sent after three in the morning. It says, _I’d rather not say. Will update you when I can._ And then another, right after: _PS: Don’t worry. Everything is fine._

Well, that was enlightening, John thinks crossly, drying off from his shower and getting dressed to go to the clinic. At least today he’ll have work to distract him from the emptiness of the flat. Maybe tonight Sherlock will be able to talk, wherever he is. He puts in the day, distracted by the patients, but checking his phone between appointments. He tries Sherlock once, just a short _You still okay?_ but doesn’t hear back. By the time he’s on the bus heading back to the flat, John begins to wonder if tonight will happen, either. Around seven he finally gets a response from Sherlock that says only _Sorry. Things came up. Can’t say more now but will try to make my flight tomorrow at all costs._

John puts his phone down, horribly disappointed and confused and concerned all at once. What changed? Where is Sherlock? Why won’t he say more? He thinks for awhile, then texts back _Are you sure you don’t want some help? I can fly out tonight, meet you wherever you are. Let me know ASAP!_

It takes fifteen minutes, but then Sherlock texts back: _No need. I should be able to handle it and it’s time sensitive. Thanks, though._

John sighs deeply and resigns himself to another lonely night. It seems that whatever Sherlock has got himself into is keeping him busy enough. He goes to bed early, feeling gloomy, lonely, and very much unsatisfied. He knows that his grumpiness stems more from a genuine worry for Sherlock’s safety and irritation and not knowing where he is, how he could possibly help if Sherlock gets in over his head, and feeling left out on top of that. He’d much rather fly to the continent and chase after an arms dealer than go back to the clinic and face another day of ’flu season in the seniors community. Oh, well. Nothing to be done about it now. He just hopes that Sherlock won’t miss his flight or get delayed doing whatever it is he’s doing. 

John thinks about getting himself off, maybe watching a bit of porn on his phone, but somehow, stupidly, he feels like it would be slightly disloyal. Not that he doesn’t do that just because he’s in a relationship. He does – they both do – and that’s normal. Tonight, somehow, it just doesn’t feel right. He turns on his side and pulls the blankets tight around his shoulders and tries not to feel so alone. 

*** 

Sherlock calls him in middle of the afternoon, to John’s surprise. He’s just shown Mr Phelps out and is washing his hands when the phone rings. He answers it just as Beverly, the new receptionist, pokes her head around the door to announce his next patient. “Sherlock!” he says, then moves the phone away from his mouth. “Sorry,” he tells Beverly. “This is important. Hold my next one. See if Janice can take him.” 

“Will do.” Beverly disappears and John turns his attention to the call. 

“I’m sorry, John,” are the first words out of Sherlock’s mouth, and that’s a wise choice, John thinks. “Things got complicated. But I just wanted to tell you that I’ll be back tonight, as planned.” 

John’s heart soars. “Oh yeah?” he asks, glancing subtly out the open door of his office as he pushes it closed. “What happened? Where are you now?” 

“I’m in Zurich but I’m just about to catch a flight back to Edinburgh to get my proper flight home,” Sherlock tells him. “That’s why I’m calling now, in the middle of your shift.” 

“It’s fine,” John says, not caring in the slightest. “But why are you in Zurich?” 

“Meredith actually told me something useful,” Sherlock says. It sounds as though he’s outdoors, walking through a crowded space. In the background John can hear people speaking in German, the sounds of a lot of other pedestrians, the flapping of pigeons’ wings. “After I got her to stop rambling, she told me about a meet between Jacobs and Morgenthaler in Zurich, which Morgenthaler certainly didn’t tell me. He gave me just enough to piece together where it would take place, however – long story, but Morgenthaler owns a little chalet just north of the city and takes all of his most important clients there. I know because he invited me there – and I know what you’re thinking and of course I refused. Nicely. He told me exactly where it is, though, gave me enough to go on, and Meredith gave me an approximate time frame. I know because Jacobs was due back in Edinburgh to take her out for dinner tonight.” 

“Was due?” John repeats. “Did something happen to change that?” 

“Yes,” Sherlock informs him, rather smugly. “ _I_ happened. He’s currently sitting in a Swiss prison next to Morgenthaler, which should just about make your year. Neither one of them is going to be doing any skiing any time soon, nor any further arms dealing. So I hope you’re set to celebrate tonight, as planned.” 

John’s pulse trebles. “You’re brilliant,” he says admiringly. “You should have let me help, though!” 

“The meet was last night, continuing to this morning,” Sherlock explains. “And there was very little reception once I got into the mountains. There wasn’t time for you to get there, that’s all. Next time I’ll know to just take you from the start.” 

John relaxes. “It’s all right,” he says. “Just get yourself home. I’ve missed you horribly.” 

“I’ve missed you, too,” Sherlock says, lowering his voice so far that it almost disappears into the background noise. “All right – I have to get my plane. I’ll see you tonight.” 

“Tonight,” John repeats, and Sherlock ends the call. 

He whizzes through the rest of his patients in high energy and a mood so good most of them go away happy, too, then grabs his coat and heads back to the flat. On the bus, he gets a text from Sherlock. _Just landed in Edinburgh. Next flight is scheduled to depart on time. Get ready._

John types back immediately. _Are you wearing the suit??_

Sherlock responds at once this time. _As promised. With your favourite aubergine shirt._

‘Aubergine’. John snorts. Sherlock said that just to make him laugh, with all of his fancy words for ‘purple’. It’s true that that shirt is John’s favourite, though. He imagines it under that slim-cut city boy suit and his mouth waters, thinking of taking Sherlock out of it all, the length of his pale neck rising out of the open vee of his collar, those ethereal eyes of his fixed on John’s as he unbuttons it down the length of Sherlock’s torso… he clears his throat and almost crosses his legs, aware that he’s still on a bus. 

Then Sherlock sends a follow-up text, fifteen minutes later. _And now that I’m through security, I’m also wearing a butt plug. Just so you know._

John just barely manages to bite back a moan from escaping through his clenched teeth and does cross his legs now, waiting out the rest of the bus ride with impatience. Once inside the house, he makes a split-second decision, swallows down his potential humiliation, and knocks at Mrs Hudson’s door. She answers right away and invites him in for tea, which he declines. “Er, I just wanted to give you a bit of a head’s up,” John says awkwardly. “Um. You might know that Sherlock went away for a few days, to Germany.” 

“Right, he did mention that,” Mrs Hudson says vaguely. “You did, too, when you came to change my light. Is he coming home soon?”

“Yes, tonight, actually,” John says. He clears his throat. “Erm – that’s the reason I’m stopping by, in fact… he’s been gone for several days now and we’ve, er, rather missed each other. What I’m trying to say is – ”

Mrs Hudson raises a hand and waves it at him. “I understand,” she says, hastily cutting him off. “You’re suggesting I might – like to spend the evening somewhere else.” 

John makes a sheepish face. “It’s just that it might get – er – a bit loud, so I thought…”

“Yes, quite right,” Mrs Hudson says, cutting him off again. “Tell you what: I’ll go and stay with my sister tonight. She’s got a bit of the ’flu anyway and could do with a bit of company. Then you two can be as free as you like. How’s that?” 

“Mrs Hudson,” John says in tones of profound gratitude, “you’re the best. I owe you one.” 

Mrs Hudson favours him with a sly smile. “It’s in everyone’s best interests,” she says archly. “And I’ll tell you what: I’ll let the two of you take me out for brunch next weekend, if you like. Once all the excitement’s died down. How would that be?” 

“Perfect,” John says, smiling at her. “Thanks so much.” 

“That’s all right,” Mrs Hudson tells him. “Sometimes a couple needs their privacy. I understand that perfectly well. I’ll go and get my things together. What time are you expecting him, then?” 

John checks his watch. “Not until around six. It’s not quite five now. Plenty of time to have your supper first and all of that.” 

“Well, I might actually take something over to Louisa’s…” Mrs Hudson muses. “I don’t know that she’ll be eat all that well, on her own there. I might as well head over sooner rather than later. You go on up. I’m sure you’ve got your own preparations to make!” 

John hopes rather devoutly that Mrs Hudson isn’t making a particularly lewd reference and decides not to pursue it. “Right,” he says. “Well, then – have a nice night!” 

She twinkles at him. “I won’t tell you the same; I’m quite sure that you will. Off you go, then!” 

John grins and escapes upstairs. He hastily tidies a few things away, then gets out the vacuum and cleans the sitting room carpet as thoroughly as he can. He takes out the rubbish and straightens up the kitchen, then lights a few candles in the window. He doesn’t it want it to look too corny, but a bit of atmosphere won’t hurt. He checks the time obsessively, then takes himself into the loo and has a shower, just to be as fresh as possible. He shaves and brushes his teeth and checks the time again. Ten to six. He goes into the bedroom, pulls on a pair of Sherlock’s exquisitely expensive, tight black briefs and ties on his own burgundy dressing gown over it. Sherlock likes undressing him, though if he’s already sat through an entire (short-ish, but still) flight with a butt plug in, he’ll be practically gagging for it by the time he walks in the door, so John’s decided to make it easy for him. He rakes his fingers through his damp hair to spike it up a bit, then goes to wait in Sherlock’s chair, one knee crossed over the other. It’s seven minutes past six when he hears the door downstairs, followed by Sherlock’s step on the stairs. His heart beat picks up and begins to race, though he prides himself on keeping his expression set. 

Sherlock opens the door and finds him immediately, taking in what he’s wearing, where he’s sitting in a nanosecond. John can practically see his pupils dilating from there. 

“You’re late,” he says, trying to sound stern. 

Sherlock frowns a little. “Only seven minutes. I thought the taxi made rather good time, considering the traffic… you’re not really angry, are you?” 

John smiles. “Of course not,” he says. He’d get up, but this is all part of it. “Take off your coat,” he says. It’s a suggestion, but underscored with just enough authority to trigger Sherlock’s military kink. 

Sherlock just manages to hide a grin. He unbuttons the Belstaff slowly, his eyes on John’s the whole time. For a man who’s currently wearing about four layers on his torso, it should be a completely tame striptease, but of course it isn’t. Sherlock manages to prolong the act of removing his coat into almost torturous grounds, then swirls it off his shoulders and over the back of John’s chair. And beneath it, he’s wearing the new suit. John’s breath draws in sharply. It’s even nicer seeing it the second time round. By all rights it should be wrinkled from a day of sitting on planes and trains but of course Sherlock looks like he just walked out of the shop with it on. “You still like it?” he asks. 

John nods. “Come here,” he says, patting his right thigh, and Sherlock comes over and straddles his lap, somehow managing to obey while still looking predatory. It’s a knee-weakening combination and John is entirely susceptible to it. He raises his chin to go for Sherlock’s mouth, but Sherlock ducks forward before he can, lipping at John’s ear instead. 

“Touch it,” he says in John’s ear, his voice dropping into ranges that do wicked things to John’s libido. “Put your hands all over it.” 

He’s already doing it, his hands going like magnets to Sherlock’s arse and squeezing it, then running over his thighs and up his sides. He’s been half hard since the bus and feels Sherlock’s underwear growing tight around him. “God, you look amazing in this,” he says, tilting his head back to look up at Sherlock. 

Sherlock smirks at him. “Morgenthaler thought so, too. Mission accomplished.” 

“Not yet, it isn’t,” John growls, meaning both Morgenthaler’s failure to persuade Sherlock to sleep with him and his own incomplete mission with regards to this particular suit. His fingers go to the buttons of the jacket. “I love how fitted it is. Your suits are always just right, but this is – wow. I love it.” The buttons are undone, one by one, and he pushes the shoulders back. Sherlock helps him by slipping out of it and tossing it back onto John’s chair. 

“What do you think of the waistcoat?” he asks, in that same tone. “Not too Myc – ”

“Do _not_ say that name just now,” John warns, and Sherlock laughs, his eyes crinkling up. 

“Sorry,” he says, bending forward to put his lips on John’s ear again. “Go on. Take me out of this, then.” 

John’s hands are on his arse again; he can’t help it. “Missed me, did you?” he asks, letting the arousal curl into his voice. 

“Intensely. I had every intention of having a second or even third skype chat, you know. Things just got – ”

“I know,” John interrupts. Sherlock’s managed to get a hand inside his dressing gown, a thumb rubbing at John’s left nipple, and it feels rather good. He wants to kiss Sherlock, rather badly, but the tension of holding off is rather exquisite, too. He pushes Sherlock back, gently, and starts undoing the buttons of the tightly-fit waistcoat. This gets flung aside, too, then the shirt is next. John gets it open rather quickly, then pauses to admire the contrast of the dark purple shirt against Sherlock’s alabaster skin and buries his face in the fine, auburn hair growing there, laving his tongue over Sherlock’s nipples one at a time. 

“John…” Sherlock breathes, both hands in John’s hair. Kneeling over him this way puts John’s face at exactly the right height for this. He pulls Sherlock closer against himself and feels the hardness trapped in those fitted trousers and Sherlock presses in unabashedly. He turns his face down into John’s hair and breathes there, the damp heat of his breath mixing with the wetness of John’s hair from the shower. 

John transfers his mouth to Sherlock’s gorgeous neck, his hands dropping to unbutton his trousers. He bypasses the obvious, Sherlock’s straining erection, and slips a hand instead down the back, directly into Sherlock’s underwear, probing with his middle finger. He was expecting to find the abutment of the butt plug, but instead his finger sinks directly into the heat of Sherlock’s body and they both moan. “You took it out,” John says, with difficulty, and it’s the most obvious statement ever, but there it is. 

“In the – airport,” Sherlock says, his breath already short. He loves being fingered rather a lot, and him being turned on by it is a huge turn on for John. “I wanted to have everything – ready. That would – account for the… ah… seven extra minutes.” 

John makes a sound in response that doesn’t quite qualify as proper words. Instead, he withdraws his hand and tips Sherlock out of his lap, standing them both up at once. He gives in at last (can’t help it, really) and pulls Sherlock’s face down into a long, wet, messy kiss. He’s vaguely aware of Sherlock losing his shirt the rest of the way, and of his own dressing gown being stripped roughly off his shoulders and onto the floor. Sherlock doesn’t sweat much, but John can smell it on him now, faintly, and drags his nose over Sherlock’s neck and behind his ear, anything he can get, his hands wild on Sherlock’s back and arse. 

“Why did you even – bother – wearing these?” Sherlock gets out, both of his hands down the back of his own underwear, which John is wearing. 

John leans back far enough to grin up into Sherlock’s face. “Because they look great on me,” he states. 

Sherlock frowns. “Let me see,” he orders, and John steps back just far enough to let him get a good look. Sherlock’s tone changes. “Oh, I do see. Especially when they’re so… filled out.” 

He drops to his knees without ceremony and rubs his face against John’s erection, which makes him gasp and clutch at Sherlock’s curls. He lets it go for a few moments, Sherlock tracing the length of him with his mouth through the underwear, but he’s still half-dressed whereas John is down to just this pair of briefs, so after a bit he reluctantly forces himself to say, “You need to get undressed the rest of the way. Much as I love those trousers, they can go now.” 

Sherlock chuckles into him, a long, low, sensuous laugh that makes every cell of John’s body surge with need for him. “If you insist,” he says, and gets up. John’s hands are on him before Sherlock can even do it himself, unzipping him quickly, though careful not to get snagged on the considerable bump impeding the way. “Pushy,” Sherlock comments, but his voice is breathy in a way that says exactly how much he loves this. 

“You were taking too long.” John meant to get Sherlock’s underwear off right away, too, but somehow he ends up stopping to kiss Sherlock again, hungrily, their bodies pressing together, skin-to-skin save for this last, little thing. It’s only been four days but it feels like a year since he’s had Sherlock in his arms and it feels so good. Every little part of this, the build-up, the teasing, it’s all feeding into something huge and fun as the idea is of attacking Sherlock and stripping him bodily the second he came in the door, there’s so much in this that will lead to a greater payout in the end, both physically and otherwise. Which isn’t to say that there’s any urgency lacking now; there were just a lot of layers to peel away first. Sherlock has a leg curled around him, half trying to climb him and half trying to pull John down to the carpet. John decides to go with the second and they collapse onto the floor into a tangle of limbs, still kissing and grinding against one another. John is groaning into Sherlock’s mouth and without any further discussion, they get themselves properly naked at last, struggling out of their underwear and rolling over and over in each other’s arms. John stops them with Sherlock on his back, then says, “Turn over.” 

Sherlock’s eyes gleam; he knows exactly what this entails. He lets go of John and turns onto his front, turning his face sideways onto his hands. “You did promise…” 

“To rim you right here on the sitting room carpet? Absolutely,” John says, and begins to kiss his way down Sherlock’s long spine. He loves the way Sherlock’s body changes, all bone and muscle except for just here, the round firmness of his perfect arse. There’s just enough flesh on it to make it smooth, flawless, the best arse in Britain, as John has claimed many times now. “God, I love your arse,” he says again, with deep appreciation. He pulls Sherlock up onto his knees, face still down on his hands, and kisses one cheek, then bites the other, just hard enough to hurt a little. Sherlock makes a noise of unmistakeable arousal. John reaches around and finds Sherlock’s cock, which is flat-up against his stomach and already leaking. His mouth waters and he decides to stop messing about and do this properly. Without letting go of Sherlock’s cock, he puts his face into the warm crease of his arse and presses the flat of his tongue up against the tightly-crinkled entrance to Sherlock’s body. Sherlock jerks, his cock oozing a little, and he moans. “You like that?” John asks, teasing, and does it again. 

Sherlock moans again. “Yes – God – keep going, please!” 

He must want it badly if he actually said _please_. John obliges him, licking, feeling the muscle soften under his tongue, then poking the tip of it inside. He can feel the effects of the butt plug; Sherlock is already more open and relaxed than usual, which means that his tongue can get even deeper. He knows why else Sherlock took the butt plug out in advance; he’s extremely fastidious about his cleanliness and having John take it out for him could make him feel uneasy with respect to all of that. John isn’t sure how he managed to do all this in an airport loo, but it’s Sherlock, after all. He focuses his attention on using his tongue to reduce Sherlock to a panting, whining, drooling mess. He keeps his left hand on Sherlock’s cock throughout, sliding his foreskin back and forth over the head of it, touching his fingers to the tip to feel his precome winking out in droplets and the effect is such that John is harder than steel by the time Sherlock shifts. 

“John – please!” His voice is shredded, all breath. “I need you – now!” 

John withdraws his face. “On your back, like you said the other day?” 

“No – just like this. Now. Please!”

Sherlock sounds frantic and the very sound of his desperation makes John’s cock swell, his balls standing well out from his body, heavy and full. He groans, the need making his voice come out rough. “Yes – where’s – we need – ”

“Here!” Sherlock shoves a small tube back at him and John curses himself for not having thought to move the bottle he brought out from the bedroom closer than from the side table. 

“You’re a genius,” he says, slicking it over himself with shaking fingers. He’s so turned on he can hardly bear to touch himself even for this. He bends over Sherlock, knees between Sherlock’s on the carpet, and presses a kiss to his spine as he enters him, guiding himself with his right hand. The fingers of his left are on Sherlock’s nipple, pinching it as he pushes himself all the way into the heat of Sherlock’s body. 

Sherlock makes a loud noise and chokes it off. “Mrs Hudson – is she – ”

“She’s out,” John breathes, sparks going off behind his eyes, afraid to move lest he come right then and there. “And she will be all night, so make as much noise as you like!” 

Sherlock moans, raising his head, his eyes closed, lips parted. “You’re the real genius of the two of us,” he counters, then, “God, please John, put it in me! I need – ”

John can’t hold himself back any longer. He’s trembling on the verge of losing control of his orgasm, but his body _needs_. His heart, too, for that matter. He grips Sherlock’s hips with both hands and pulls back just far enough to plunge into him, sunk root-deep, then does it again, then again, then again. He watches the minute shock waves ripple through Sherlock’s perfect skin and goes harder and harder. Their bodies are slapping together and Sherlock is moaning loudly, without restraint. 

“Yes – John – oh – ! Harder, please – yes – ”

John is past the point of being able to form words. All of his concentration is devoted to thrusting as deeply into Sherlock as he can go, his hips pumping as hard as they can, and pleasure is rising around him like a fog, curling into every pore of his skin and every cell of his organs. He’s bent over Sherlock’s, fucking him like two animals copulating in the wild, and it’s base and primal and he is about to come so hard Sherlock will taste it. Sherlock is bucking beneath him, gasping, and John reaches for him and grabs at his cock, fisting it roughly. He gets in about six strokes and then Sherlock is shouting hoarsely, his body shooting out his orgasm in hot bursts over John’s fist as he thrusts into it. His arse is spasming around John’s cock, squeezing it over and over again and John can’t stop it now – he gasps and shudders and grips Sherlock’s sides and thrusts forward once more and then it’s gushing out of him in wave after wave, spattering Sherlock’s insides in thick pulses of release and he can’t stop rutting into him or shouting, his entire body caught in it, still slamming up against Sherlock’s arse even as his release leaks out around him, soaking his cock and balls and even so he’s still coming. 

It finally stops and he slumps down over Sherlock’s back, boneless and unable to move, still buried inside Sherlock. They’re both panting, Sherlock’s back heaving under him, and it’s several minutes before either of them can even speak. “Holy… fuck…” is what Sherlock manages after a bit, and it’s heartfelt, his voice rasping. 

Sherlock almost never swears, so this is a testament to the strength of his orgasm, indeed. “I’ll say.” John pulls out of him with reluctance and watches his release leak out of Sherlock’s body, streaking down onto his thighs. “I can’t believe how hard I just came.” 

“It was incredible.” Sherlock bestirs himself to turn onto his side and curl an arm around John’s back, pulling him up against his chest, his mouth finding John’s. They kiss for a long while, the hurry over, hands gentle now, stroking over each other’s backs and arses. 

Eventually, John pulls back and says, “Welcome home.” 

Sherlock studies him, a hand in John’s hair. “You didn’t actually say hello, you know.” 

“Hello,” John says now, and Sherlock laughs, a wonderful, low laugh, and kisses him again. After a bit, he says, “I’m torn between suggesting you go to Munich more often – or wherever else – and between saying you’re never allowed to travel without me again.” 

“I honestly have no desire to go anywhere without you again,” Sherlock tells him, very seriously. “I was so bored without you.” 

John smiles, and doesn’t challenge this. “The floor is a bit hard,” he points out after awhile. “Are you hungry at all? It is dinner time, and I’m going to need you to keep up your strength for the rest of the night…” 

Sherlock sits up, runs his fingers through his now-rumpled curls, and says, “Hmm. Possibly. Yes, all right. If you want.” 

John gets to his feet and pulls Sherlock to his, then pulls him back into his arms to kiss him again. It goes on for quite awhile, again, and he thinks with satisfaction that Sherlock really must have missed him. That’s only fair, then: he missed Sherlock horrendously. “I want to hear all about the case,” he reminds Sherlock, when this particular kiss ebbs off at last. “I want to hear every brilliant detail.” 

Sherlock considers this. “Do we have to get dressed?” 

“No, of course not.” John says. “I might put something on when I answer the door, though. If it’s somewhere we’d like to order from again, at least.” 

Sherlock waves this off. “Whatever. You order. Take my card. I’m going to have a shower. You can join me, if you like.” 

“Don’t I usually?” John goes to find Sherlock’s jacket on his chair and stoops to find his wallet. 

Sherlock doesn’t respond to this, not directly. “I had a lot of very solitary showers while I was away,” he says. “Come and spare me the misery.” 

John smiles at his back. “Will do, in that case.” He watches Sherlock’s arse retreating in the direction of the loo and his heart swells impossibly. Life has got really good at last, he thinks to himself. Sherlock looks back over his shoulder with a look that John prides himself on having helped Sherlock develop in the past six months. It’s a look of pure lasciviousness combined with all of Sherlock’s smirking sense of humour and a particular mischief that he never entirely let show before this. It’s a look that says he knows exactly how to get John hard again within minutes, despite that monumental orgasm he just had, and how long he can tease it before letting John come again, too. John feels the credit card slip out of his fingers and fall unnoticed to the floor. 

_Screw the food,_ he thinks. They can eat later. “I’ll be right there!” he calls. 

*


End file.
